


Mentors

by LukeVonCastiel



Category: Guild Wars, Guild Wars 2
Genre: Coping, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-29
Updated: 2015-01-29
Packaged: 2018-03-09 13:30:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3251549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LukeVonCastiel/pseuds/LukeVonCastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A song for the norn who never knelt. A sight for the sylvari who dreamt of the world. A sip for the charr who found courage once more. Memories of the mentors who taught us well, even if their tales have ended and they have no more to tell.</p>
<p>For Forgal. For Sieran. For Tybalt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mentors

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for my own Guild Wars Alphabet Challenge on Tumblr. The letter was, of course, M (for Mentors). This fic features unnamed male commanders for Vigil and Priory, and an unnamed female commander for Whispers. Finally, the song in this is of my own creation and it's not particularly good. Forgive me Forgal.

He dragged his feet through the snow, trudging through the miserable heaps with weary feet and shivering hands. The wind whipped about, lashing against his face and sending cold, wet flakes into his eyes. His tongue slipped out to wet his cracked lips, then retreated hastily back onto his mouth at the sheer _cold_ of the place.

_'Hoelbrak. City of Norn. And there's a blizzard.'_

He could only wonder at his timing, and push on. He’d been the final through the Asura Gate, promptly shut down when he’d paid his fees and passed through. The tiny, grumpy asura that had been monitoring it had been wrapped from head to toe in thick furs and knitted garments, and had been accompanied by one very worried norn. The latter had scooped up the former the moment he’d arrived, and with a word of warning to get inside before he froze to death, scurried off to hide in the Great Halls. The Great Halls, with warm mead and roaring fires, and the raised dais for folk to stand upon and sing songs and stories of the great and worthy.

_'Why I'm here…'_ He thought. _'For you. A song for them all to hear, if my throat survives this dry chill.'_ He paused, then laughed at an imagined reply. _'You're right there, this would be nothing to you old man. No more complaining then, wouldn't do for a soldier of the Vigil eh? I'd just better forget that time on the Coast when you were a sweltering mess!”_

A sudden, vicious howl of wind returned his mind to the present, wiping the small smile from his face. His legs were knee deep in the drifts now, freezing, damp snow biting through his thick pants. Even dressed appropriately for a his trip to Hoelbrak, he’d never anticipated such a storm. Catching sight of the massive doors to the Great Hall in the distance, he pushed forward faster. He had no idea if, or when, they’d close those doors and he didn’t want to be stuck on the wrong side of them if they did.

He nearly stumbled several times, limbs heavy, struggling against the cutting chill. But he knew if he faltered then he might never make it to the doors, and what a poor, sodding story that would make. The Commander of the Pact; cause of death, hypothermia. After swarms of Renegade and Separatists and hylek tournaments and Risen and _bloody dragons,_ death by a nasty chill seemed a miserable way to go.

_'Not here to die,'_ he thought, watching as the fiery shadows danced between the giant doors, still ajar. _'Here to live. Here to help_ you _live_. _Here for you, for you, have to let them know.’_ He was the only one who could sing of his story, and he had to let them know.

With a rush of heat, heady flames licking up from his toes to his fingertips and pushing him onward. He barreled, or as close to it as one his size in this snow could, toward the doors and with a great bellow passed from the snowy oblivion and into the heated room beyond.

A single norn stood by the door, the very same that had spirited away with the asura in tow. She gave him a nod of acknowledgement as he tripped on the bearskin rug, then with a mighty push shut the great doors and cut off the cries of the wind.

"Glad you made it stranger," she said. "No doubt you’re the last." She helped him straighten up, then nearly sent him down again with a hearty slap to the back. "There’s good food and drink, enough for everyone, and songs and dance. Come, come. Leave that wet coat on the pile and sit in the furs! Much better for you little folk!"

She strode down the stairs to the throng of norn below. While there were other faces; smatterings of human, sylvari, asura, and charr, for the most part the crowd below was norn.

_'Good, good,'_ he thought, stripping of his sodden coat and tossing it atop the rest with a wet slap. He hesitated a moment before kicking off his boots as well, then hurried down the massive steps. Though he could only go one at a time, they were three times the size of any normal stairs and he traversed them with great speed for his height.

_'Had to have a long stride around you. “Keep up, keep up, a soldier of the Vigil hasn't got the time to waste dawdling!” Dawdling! Your legs were the size of two of me, and you said that!'_ He laughed at the memory, a rueful sound.

Upon the raised dais now was a woman, singing something bright and bawdy. While not excessively inappropriate, it was enough to set both the children and adults in the crowd whooping and raising their tankards of spiced cider and ale high. The woman’s voice grew louder in response, and she tossed her skirts about and hollered to the tune of the lute and drums. Some part of him realised there was a reasonable chance the content of her songs were her own stories and experiences, and he could only shake his head at that.

_'Norn. Your people. Sharing their legends great and small. But  know you valued actions more than words.'_ Again he felt a burning at the corner of his eyes, and this time he attributed it to the blaze in the hearth and the overwhelming scents in the air. Leather and hide, wood and steel, crackling flame and roasted meat, and sweat and ale. So much ale. _'Well I value actions too. You wanted me to remember you, you daft old man, and I'll do that. I'll do better than that.'_

The hall filled with raucous sounds as the woman finished her sound. Cheering and applause was met with boasts and bickering as the norn squabbled over who should stand upon the dais next. Bards and warriors and craftsmen attempted to climb atop, and in the chaos he saw his chance.

_'I'll do better.'_ His face was hard, like sculpted stone, as he hurried to the platform. His height was an advantage as he weaved through the writhing bodies of the norn and pulled himself upon the stage. Two norn already stood upon it, both warriors, and appeared about to start a fight. He put an end to their posturing with a swift and calculated lunge that knocked them both to the ground, then stood triumphant.

"What’s this?" One of the fallen warrior’s exclaimed as he extracted himself from beneath the other. "You want to take the stage, tiny one? Have you a story worthy of the norn?"

"I have a story worth many norn!" He exclaimed. His voice was harsher than intended, but couldn’t be helped. The cold had damaged his throat. But it would do. His voice would do. So long as it rang loud and strong, and the tale it told was good, none would care if the words were rough.

"Oh, that it is a mighty claim! Tell us then, tiny one, what story could you have that is worth many norn?" The warrior stood at the edge of the dais, looking up. The other norn looked upon him too, and he returned their curious gaze with as much fire as he could muster.

"It is the Song of Forgal Kernsson, Warmaster of the Vigil and Son of the Last Dolyak Shaman!" He shouted. "Defender against Dragons and Holder of the Line." A hush fell over the hall. Clearly some folk here knew of Forgal. Perhaps even of his fate.

"You would sing to us of a dead man?" The warrior at his feet asked.

"I _will_ sing to you of a hero.” His word was final, and the hall was quiet. Adults quieted their children and the jovial music ceased, and he realised he truly had caught their attention.

_'They respect strength and will, and legend and great deeds, and I have shown that even as an outsider I will make a stand here. Actions over words. Just like you, old man.'_

In the silence of the hall, he could hear his own stomach churning. His heart hammered in his ears and for a moment he felt a pang of sympathy for Marshal Trahearne. He’d encouraged the quiet scholar to take up the mantle of leader, and how any times must he have felt this anxiety standing before such a large group of people.

_'It would be less scary if the roof was lower,'_ he thought, clearing his throat. For just a second he could feel a hand against his back, clapping it as if to say ‘ _you young’uns! How are you going to fight the dragons if you’re scared of low roofs?’_

The thought bolstered him, and he stood taller. Back straight and strong. He was proud to be here, he was proud to be heard. He was proud to share this song. There was no music to accompany him, no sound to fill those empty rafters but his own voice.

And he sung.

'There's stories of courage and stories of strength,

Of valour as bright as the sun

But there’ll ne’re be a story of greatness and glory

As that one of Forgal Kernsson.

Born to a father; the last Dolyak Shaman,

As proud as the oxen, as tough,

As strong and determined, whether free or burdened,

When times were both easy and rough.

He fought many creatures; the evil and heathen,

But Dragons he hated the most.

For as cruel Icebrood minions did spread their dominions,

His joys turned to ashen ghosts.

The wife of good Forgal was stout and fierce-hearted,

With nary a fear in the world,

Yet ice spread and took her, her form cold in the fur,

And so too fell his merry, young girl.

His son soon did follow them into the darkness,

And all turned to shivering blue,

But no wrath was as fearsome or brutally gruesome

As Forgal’s blade cut them all through.

He knew at that moment his legend had fallen

As his family lay in the snow,

But his actions seemed clearer , for nothing was dearer

Than a man who stood up and said ‘No.’

'No' to the monsters and 'No' to the dragons,

And ‘No’ to all beasts from the dark,

Thus he took up his steel and brought all things to heel,

And knew that his purpose was stark.

Oh, there’s stories of courage and stories of strength,

Of valour as bright as the sun

But there’ll ne’re be a story of greatness and glory

As that one of Forgal Kernsson.

He fought for the Vigil and rose ‘mongst its people,

'Til titled Warmaster was he,

And all foes that did hear him knew chances had turned slim,

So over the hills they did flee.

But Forgal knew villains had no place here living,

And cut them all down with a swing

Of his axes and blades, and thus evil fades,

And he took a novice under wing.

He taught him his duty and taught him his tactics,

The two grew quite close it was said,

And Renegade mongrel, and Risen, and scoundrel

Soon all lay at their feet, quite dead.

But then came the Battle for Claw Island’s borders

Where armies of undead did land,

And despite all the warnings, dead scouts on past mornings,

Our bodies were splayed out on sand.

The sky grew much fouler as evil descended

in the form of Blightghast Plaguebringer,

Trapped and fast falling, Forgal heard his calling,

And scowling said ’ he’s the winner-

Of the battle but not of our spirits

And go now, the gates you must seal!’

Then facing the horror, Forgal Kernsson did holler

'You will never make me kneel!”

Oh, there’s stories of courage and stories of strength,

Of valour as bright as the sun

But there’ll ne’re be a story of greatness and glory

As that one of Forgal Kernsson.

Yes there’ll ne’re be a story of greatness and glory

As that one of Forgal Kernsson.”

His voice faded on that final moment, and for just a second the entire hall was silent. The quiet unnerved him, and he briefly wondered if his song had failed Forgal. Failed to truly honour his legend, his valour, his sacrifice. Nervously he reached to hold the horn strung around his neck. The Warmaster’s heirloom, passed down to him.

Then the warrior who had stood at the edge of the dais raised his second tankard toward him, and with a sharp nod he took it from him and raised it up.

"To Forgal Kernsson!" He roared. The great Hall reverberated around him with the answering cry.

"For there’ll ne’re be a story of greatness and glory as that one of Forgal Kernsson!"

His cheeks burnt with tears he knew were falling, but did not care to stop. Instead he smiled at the sound of the great cry that took the hall. A cry of joy and sorrow, of rememberance, as all present threw up their tankards and hands and raised their voices in honour of Forgal Kernsson.

————-

With a whoop of delight he toppled over, rolling amongst the grass. His legs ached and his back throbbed, and sweat dripped down his brow to caress his cheeks and throat. But he’d made it, right to the very top.

For a short while he simply lay there, the green blades tickling his legs through his breeches. Tiny flowers danced around him; blue periwinkle, marigold, tall lupine, yellow balsam, tiny angelica, volkamenia, and zinnia. So many colours blossomed about, bending in the soft breeze. The sky above was brightest blue, unmarred but for the smallest clouds of white. The air was warm, but not over-so, and fresh and light.

Beyond the hill itself lay a small set of ruins; stones collapsed and fallen apart but for a few foundations. Yet it seemed so picturesque, backed up against a mountainside, a tiny waterfall giving way to a spring, which in turn flowed into a river that passed through the ruins. Sitting up on the hill he could see it all, as well as the birds wheeling overhead, and a distant woody glade.

"Isn’t it gorgeous?" He said, voice carried away by the wind. His lips quirked up into a small smile, and he turned to rummage through his small pack. Journal, paints, brushes, ink-pen and quill. He laid them out and set to work.

First he wrote, painstakingly slow. The words curled and flourished, flowery and whimsical, and detailed all the actions of the day. He wrote of his encounter with a tipsy skritt, and his discussion with a human explorer mapping the area. His daring encounter with a territorial bear, the shining rock samples he had collected, and finally his trip up the hill. He wrote of the wondrous view, the flowers and sky, the ruins below.

Then once he had filled the pages with all the words he could muster, he turned the pages and took up his paints. With a careful eye he captured the scene around him on paper. No detail was too small or unworthy, everything a hidden wonder just waiting to be explored.

"And look at how the sun reflects of the water there! It’s brilliant!" He exclaimed, painting the water’s shine.

Once he was satisfied he placed the book aside to dry, and wandered the hilltop. For each different sort of flower, he plucked one, preferably smaller. It took him some time to collect one’s that satisfied him, but once he had them all the paint had dried and he was able to press them between the back pages.

And then he began to talk, all whilst watching the horizon.

"I bet you’re wondering what civilisation those ruins belong to," he rambled, looking down at the shattered stones. "So am I! None of the scholars in the area know. That’s because the design doesn’t really align with any known people that have inhabited the area! But that’s fantastic, because it means this is a new insight into a culture, the work of an eccentric, or something completely unique altogether!"

As he went on he found his voice became tighter, more choked. His hands trembled where they rested in the grass, supporting his shuddering body.

"A-and I mean, there are hills and mountains all around here, so it’s a touch secretive. Hidden away, like someone’s retreat, or a paradise. And it’s gorgeous, few places like it! A rare sight indeed, something new and wonderful and- and- and…"

He trailed off as his vision blurred, the beauty of the world lost in a salty sea of murky green and blue, with splashes of colour. He reached out to the small journal lying beside him on the grass and hugged it to his chest.

"You’d love it, Sieran," he whispered, "You would. But I just wish you could see it. You wanted that so much. To see it all, the glory of the world and then you…"

_Died._

_For us._

_For me._

_"There was so much left that I wanted to see..."_

His entire body trembled and he gasped for air, fingers digging into the journal, Sieran’s journal. He had to keep filling it in, had to show her, had to share it with her.

But more than that, he had to see it all for himself. Too see it with his own eyes, to wander and explore all the sights of the world. Not just for himself, but for her.

"Thank you Sieran, for showing me this place. This sight." He smiled. "I never would have been able to without you."

He looked down at the journal, and smiled.

"I really wish you could see it too, my friend." He looked up at the green, like her skin, the blue, like her clothes, the rocky ruins the darker undertones of both petal and robe. And the sun, the water’s shine, and the many blossoms ever-bright like her spirit.

"I’m glad I got to see this place. For me, and for you."

————-

She entered the tavern with nary a sound, little more than a ghost to its rowdy occupants. The lights were dim, the last beams of dusk filtering through the portholes that lined the walls of many a pub in Lion’s Arch. A few candles had been lit in preparation for the night, which already seemed to be well underway. People were singing, dancing, smoking, laughing, drinking.

But she passed them all with no more than a glance and stopped at the wooden counter. Across from her a charr woman stood, scrubbing a stained old tankard that would no doubt be filthy by the next morn.

"You again?" The charr asked, her voice a low growl, though not unfriendly. One of her eyes was white and scarred, and she was missing several fangs. "Suppose you’ll be wanting the same?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, placing two of her own wooden tankards upon the bench top. The bartender simply took them and grunted, wandering into the back room where both the less popular and expensive goods were kept. She waited patiently for her return, which came swiftly accompanied by the scent of bubbling apple cider. Non-alcoholic, as was preferred.

It was hard to see the unseeable when one was drunk after all.

"Never understood why people drink this junk," the bartender sniffed. "All bubbly and fruity. Sure it’s got human origins. Tastes nothing like good Blood Whiskey." She chuckled softly at that, and the bartender raised a feline brow.

"Sorry, I don’t suppose the charr are fond of apples." She gave the other woman a shadowed smile, face still partially concealed beneath her low-drawn hood. "Which makes this all the stranger, really."

"Why, the second mug for a charr?" The bartender asked. This was the first time they’d truly conversed over the many months she’d been fetching drinks from the place. She wondered at that.

"Yeah," she answered. "He’s a fondness for apples."

"Huh. I knew a fellow like that." The bartender picked up the tankard she’d been cleaning and slowly began scrubbing again. "Lad lost his warband, don’t know what happened after that. Heard he might’ve joined a gang or something."

"Or something," she echoed, tossing her coins upon the counter. "May your night be filled with much coin and minimal catastrophe."

"Aye, and may that friend of yours not be late," the bartender replied, as she walked away. "If he’s making you buy that junk for him it’s the least he can do."

She laughed, a quiet thing, then passed from the tavern. With tankards in hand she scurried down the wooden scaffolding and across the many bridges of Lion’s Arch. She’d always been fond of them, built from the wrecks of ships, sunken and beached. The bright colours and occasional flash of gold oft caught her eye, but so, she supposed, did the rotting planks that creaked precariously below her.  
  
 _'T'is a good thing I see everything,' she thought._  
  
 _'Even this?'_ She heard the reply, though it was only a distant memory. The back of her head throbbed in response, as if the apple that had been lightly tossed was real and not some figment of her overacting imagination. She laughed, as she had then, though it faded as she realised there was no apple to scoop up and return to its sender.  
  
She pursed her lips and carried on, fingers curling more tightly around the tankards’ handles. She passed across the cobble stones and finally found the steep set of stairs leading down to the shore. With silent feet she descended to the empty sand. This place was always empty, this short span of land before the tide.  
  
Yet it was lovely. A quiet little place where the sand was warm and the sun sunk just right over the sea, turning it golden red and pink. The breeze here was gentle, the scent of salt and sailors carried upon its waves. Somewhere to her left a gull cried and its fellow answered.  
  
"And here we are again," she said, lowering herself to the sand. She stuck one tankard in the sand, the wooden mug firmly placed in the wet-brown muck. The other she nestled in her lap, not drinking, just waiting.  
  
As she watched the sun disappear beneath the sea, its golden lightly slowly fading in an array of red and orange, pink and purple, her fingers slipped into her pocket. There they found a worn-old cog, smooth from years of hands tracing and clutching its surface. She traced the pattern on its surface, the etched runes and letters.  
  
 _TL._  
  
"I bought your drink again," she muttered, her vision swimming. "How many is that now? I’ve lost count." She chuckled, but the sound got stuck in her throat and came out a watery mess. "I bet you owe me several barrels of this stuff now." She held up her tankard.   
  
"Just joking," the words got caught as the hand still in her pocket gripped the cog tightly. "You don’t owe me a thing. Not even the one you promised. Just…"  
  
She recalled the stench. Not salty like the sea, but foul and sick. The carrion scent, the smell of rot. She’d wondered, briefly, if they were all going to die. She’d tightened her grip on her daggers then and shook her head. No, they weren’t. And they hadn’t.  
  
But someone had to hold the gate.  
  
She’d felt her stomach plummet when he’d taken her hand, his large paws, one real, one wood and steel, wrapped around them. She’d shaken her head, again, even as he smiled at her. That wide, toothy grin. When he’d pulled back she looked down and saw the cog.  
  
 _'An Appleseller's lucky cog's a special thing, y'know.'_  
  
She squeezed her eyes shut as the memories flooded back.  
  
 _'I've done a lot of things wrong in my life. But this one thing I'm gonna do right.'_  
  
"You did plenty of things right, you silly lug," she muttered. "You were strong, your were brave." She snorted. "Infuriatingly silly at times, but I forgive you. You made me laugh." She released her grip on the cog and brought her hand to join the other wrapped around the tankard. She couldn’t bear to look at the one beside her, sitting untouched in the sand.  
  
"You found your courage again, Tybalt Leftpaw. From the moment we met to the moment we parted, there was-," she sobbed, the tears pouring down her cheeks as the last of the sun’s glow disappeared beneath the sea.  
  
"There was no braver man I ever knew. So this one’s for you, alright, you silly charr."  
  
And with that she took a drink. The fizz had faded but the sweet and sour tang of apples burst in her mouth none the less. Of course he’d like the drink. It was fun, even when it settled. It was a delicious shot of life and joy.  
  
"To the finest charr I ever knew, whose courage shone so brightly through." And she let herself laugh again, imagining just how pink Tybalt would turn at that. Again and again, she laughed through her tears.   
  
All the while drinking sweet apple cider with a smile on her face.


End file.
